Happy Mother's Day
by whitetiger91
Summary: Amos wants to spoil his wife on the one day she should hate by avoiding it altogether.


_**A/N: This was written for The Houses Competition, Year 2, Round 9.**_

 _ **House: Gryffindor**_

 _ **Year: 3**_

 _ **Category: Themed—Love (Love is the strongest emotion) (I used mainly the prompt Love (Romantic) but the other side, Feeling loved, sort of works too).**_

 _ **Prompts: 3. [Object] Book, 4. [Word] Hate**_

 _ **Word count: 3171 words (according to Google docs)**_

 ** _Betas: A humongous thank you to my betas, Zivvy (Zivandre) and CK (Theoretical-Optimist) for coming to my rescue :D Xx_**

 _ **Other: I know, I know, by the end you'll probably be wondering why he didn't just have them stay at home. The simple answer? He thought he would manage to hide it with everyone else off celebrating the day at home, and he still wanted to spoil his wife. This is slightly AU in of course we don't know that this actually happened. I became fascinated with Mr and Mrs Diggory after writing them for a previous round, so I hope this fic does them justice. I've kept her name as 'Fiona' simply because I've used it before and for some reason it felt fitting, and in my head, Amos was quite like Cedric whereby he was polite and had a good heart but could still be suave and charming (for lack of a better word—similar to how he is so confident in the books). Mrs Diggory is described as mousy in the books, but I do think she'd also be a little more... confident...around her husband. The spell is a made-up combination of 'Illegibilius' (spell to make words unrecognisable to the reader) and 'Reparifarge' (a spell to reverse Transfiguration mistakes); I was certain that there was an actual canon spell that changed words but I'm afraid I couldn't find it listed.**_

 _ **I hope everyone has had a lovely Mother's Day! This is for Jill (onlyalegend) for being the amazing person she is Xx**_

* * *

 **Happy Mother's Day**

For the first time in his life, Amos was glad that the sunlight hit his side of the bed first. Stifling a yawn, he felt along the bedside table for his wand and flicked it towards the curtains so they would slide completely shut. Checking to see that his wife was still sleeping, he then placed his wand in his pyjama pocket, slipped out of bed, and tiptoed out of the room.

As he had expected, a barn owl was waiting for him on the kitchen window sill. Amos fished out a few Knuts from the change bowl on the cupboard. Placing them in the pouch attached to the owl's leg along with a biscuit, he grabbed the copy of _The Daily Prophet_ held in its beak and shooed it out the window.

Just as he had every day that week, he took the paper over to the table and flipped through it. On just about every page there was a reminder of the day he knew his wife would hate: an advertisement for everlasting roses, a last minute 'spoil-your-mother' sale at Flourish and Blotts, a story about Cornelius Fudge's mother-in-law and how they were apparently not getting along on such a special day. Fiona didn't need to see any of it, not this year.

Taking out his wand again, he aimed it at the articles and muttered, " _Illegibilus Reparifarge._ "

The words lifted off the page and rearranged themselves in the air before settling back onto the page. The articles now told everyday stories about Nifflers causing a public nuisance in Diagon Alley and corruption at Gringotts. Part of him felt guilty for the deception, but if it would spare his wife the pain, it was worth it.

Flicking his wand yet again, this time at the kitchen sink, he set the kettle and toaster to work. It wasn't long before a hot cup of tea hopped over to a tray, settling beside a plate of marmalade toast. Summoning the tray over to the table, Amos rolled the _Prophet_ back up and placed it beside the steaming cup. He picked the tray up and, double checking he hadn't missed anything, headed back towards the bedroom.

He almost stopped when he passed Cedric's bedroom, part of him expecting the boy to come hopping out with one sock on. Cedric usually slept in on weekends, but when it was Mother's Day, he would stumble out of bed, his hair tousled but his arms filled with presents. Amos had to remember that this year that wouldn't happen, and he shook his head and continued on.

"Good morning, sunshine!" he said, entering his own bedroom.

Fiona was now sitting up in bed, her head propped up on the pillow. She smiled at him as he sat the tray on the bed and opened the curtains.

"What's the occasion?" she asked.

Amos' heart skipped a beat, but he ensured his face only showed a smile. "Do I need a reason to spoil you?" When Fiona raised a blonde eyebrow, he added, "The sun is shining, I'm not at work today, and I intend to spend this beautiful Sunday with my even more beautiful wife."

Fiona giggled and pulled the tray across her lap. "Well aren't you quite the romantic?"

Amos winked at her. "You know it. Just leave everything to me."

He settled back onto the bed, stealing a piece of toast. His eyes were trained on Fiona, however, as she picked up the paper and skimmed over the headings.

Her pale blue eyes seemed to linger on the front page, trailing from the heading to the date and back again, and Amos held his breath. He wondered if he had not been careful enough after all. Fiona hadn't been out that week, or much the week before, but perhaps one of her friends told her what day it was. Was she like other women who just seemed to know when Mother's Day was, rather than having to rely on announcements in the papers?

Thankfully, she soon turned the page and continued reading, and he breathed out.

* * *

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

Amos smiled as he led Fiona down the cobbled street towards the south side of Diagon Alley. Many of the shop fronts were covered in last-minute gift idea posters, but so far, he had managed to prevent her from seeing them by pointing things out on the opposite side of the street whenever she looked their way. Going out was perhaps not his best idea, but he had still wanted to pamper his wife, and thankfully, she seemed to be easily distracted.

"It's very quiet out today," Fiona said, looking around.

"Oh? I didn't notice." Amos moved just in front of her, blocking her view of a wizard selling pink roses that could transform into heart-shaped balloons.

His heart pounded against his chest, and he quickened his pace. The sooner they arrived at their destination, the better.

"Yes, and some of the shops look like they're closing. It's nice, don't you think? Reminds me of when I was little and the shops would close before noon on a Sunday. I really hate when it's crowded; everyone gets so pushy."

Letting out a small sigh, he smiled at her. "Oh, yes, I suppose that's why." He slowed down and gestured to one of the shops in front of them. "Well, hopefully, you won't have to contest with any crowds in here."

Fiona stared at the pristine window of the shop, her eyes going wide as she took in the robes styled on the mannequin inside. "Twilfitt and Tattings? What…"

Amos turned her to face him and clasped her other hand. "It's been a long time since you bought yourself new robes."

"But I don't need—"

He held a finger to her lips, still smiling. "No, but today isn't about what you need. Come on, my treat."

He wasn't used to bossing Fiona around—let alone anyone else—but he pulled her into the shop anyway. The bell above the door jingled, and soon they were standing in a rather large room. A crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling, complimenting the plush white carpet and soft-looking sofas spread around the room. The only spot of colour, apart from the burgundy velvet curtains partitioning off what he assumed were private fitting rooms, were the rich reds, greens, and blues of the silk robes placed on mannequins along the walls.

"Really, Amos, I wouldn't mind going to Madame Malkins," Fiona whispered.

"Nonsense, you deserve the finest," he said, shaking his head. "Besides, it's too late to leave now."

A tall, slender witch with her dark hair pulled into a chignon swept into the room at that moment, her mouth pulled into a tight smile. Unlike Madame Malkin, there were no pins protruding from between her lips, nor was there a tape measure curled around her neck. Even so, Amos could see that she was not one to mess with, and he gave her a nod as she glanced down at the thick leather book in her hands.

"Welcome to Twilfitt and Tattings, makers of the finest dress robes. Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"Er, no, but I'm here to buy my wife whatever she would like," Amos said, draping his arm around Fiona's shoulders.

The witch sniffed and snapped the book shut. Her sharp brown eyes roamed up and down Fiona's robes before she made eye contact with him.

"Just so you know, there are no discounts just because it's Mo—"

"That's okay," Amos said, cutting her off. He felt a little rude doing so, and so he added, "I'm happy to spoil her."

The woman gave him a tight smile before turning back to Fiona. "Very well, I may have a slot free. If you'd follow me, Mrs…"

"Diggory, Mrs Diggory," Fiona said, extending her hand. She took it back, however, when the saleswitch simply glanced at it.

"... Mrs Diggory, I'll show you some samples of the materials we'll be working with. Your husband can take a seat over there."

Fiona looked at him, her eyes unsure, but he gave her a smile and winked. "I'll be fine, dear; pick out whatever you want."

She didn't have time to protest further as the saleswitch guided her across the room to a stand covered in hats. Amos turned and headed over to a sofa placed along the far wall. Another man was sitting there, his arms laden with various parcels, and he dipped his head as he sat down beside him.

"Don't you hate shopping? What do they think we are, owls or something?" the man asked, holding up bags that were full of items like jewellery boxes, chiffon scarves, and chocolates. He then gave a hearty chuckle and slapped Amos across the back with his beefy hand. "I suppose you forgot what today was, too, huh?"

Amos gave him a small smile and looked back over at Fiona. The saleswitch was holding different lengths of material up to his wife as a tiny house-elf jotted down measurements. His eyes were focused on Fiona's face, however, and the way her eyes danced with excitement.

"No, but I'm glad she has forgotten," he said.

* * *

"Today has been absolutely perfect. Thank you," Fiona said, taking a bite of her dinner.

Amos smiled at her from across the table. Underneath him were the day's purchases, including several packages of her favourite tea from Rosa Lee Teabag. Ordinarily, he would have visited Flourish and Blotts to find the latest cookbooks or romance novels, or ordered a bottle of perfume from Madame Pimpernelle's, but they were Cedric's usual gifts for her, and he wanted her to continue enjoying her day. The Little Snail—a French restaurant that had recently opened up in the adjacent Horizont Alley—seemed like the perfect, intimate place to help her do so.

"How is your pasta?" he asked.

Fiona swallowed and put down her fork. "It's delicious, but not anywhere near as tasty as your homemade spaghetti," she said with a wink.

Amos' cheeks burned and he shook his head. "Now who's the romantic one?"

She gave him a wide smile before her eyes turned to the sudden sound of clapping behind him. He looked over his shoulder and his own smile faded.

Amos' throat went dry as he watched a line of restaurant waiters come out of the kitchen, each wearing a novelty hat decorated with streamers. The first waiter was holding a large cake, and he hoped that it was for someone's birthday.

"For a wonderful mother on this very special day!" the waiter announced, placing the cake on a larger table next to where Amos and Fiona were sitting.

The family sitting around it clapped and cheered, each member shouting, "Happy Mother's Day!" at the top of their lungs.

He had the urge to get up from the table and block Fiona's view or to start singing to drown out their words, but his legs had turned to jelly and his throat was still tight. All he could do was turn to his wife, who was watching the scene with watery eyes.

"Fiona, I'm so sorry…" he said, reaching for her hand.

Fiona slowly dragged her eyes away from the scene and, although a tear slid down her cheek, she gave him a small smile. "It's okay."

"Honestly, I didn't mean to not tell you; I know you hate secrets. I just—well I didn't want—I mean I…" He trailed off as she gave his hand a squeeze.

"Amos, it's okay. I knew what today was, and have known it was coming for weeks now."

"You did?"

Fiona nodded. "I'm always the one to remind you and Ced—to remind you, aren't I?"

Amos' cheeks were now on fire, and he gazed into the puddle of creamy sauce on his plate. It was true; Fiona was usually the one to remind him when Mother's Day was coming up each year, ensuring he had plenty of time to take Cedric out to find the perfect gift between work shifts. It was something she did with a small laugh rather than in frustration or with the expectation of receiving gifts, and when she hadn't done so that year, he had assumed she really had forgotten.

When she squeezed his hand again, he looked back up to see that she was still smiling at him.

"I also know what you tried to do today. I'm lucky to have you, Amos, and I appreciate it more than anything. But do you know what I'd really like to do now?"

He shook his head, knowing that the only thing she really did want—to have their son back—was not possible.

"I'd like to go home and remember," she said.

* * *

"Are you sure you are ready?" he asked, handing Fiona a hot cup of tea.

"I'm ready." His wife sat down on the floor in front of the low coffee table. Placing her cup on the glass surface, she then cleared away a few magazines covering it.

Amos watched her for a moment, trying to see for himself if she really was ready. Her eyes were still a little red, but there was a determination to her gaze, and he knew he couldn't refuse her request. With a sigh, he walked over to the large cabinet next to the living room's window and opened one of its wooden doors.

The cabinet was mainly used to house a few extra blankets for when guests were over, but as he dug around, his hand brushed against a hard, flat surface. Bending down, he pushed his other hand in amongst the blankets, and with a tug, pulled a box out.

"We could still make that concert if you want," he said, looking down at the box's blue lid that had been sealed with Spellotape. "You'd hate to miss Celina Warbeck; I've heard she sounds better live than she does on the wireless."

"I'm fine," Fiona said.

With another sigh, Amos stood and carried the box over to Fiona. "Here it is," he said, placing it on the coffee table.

Fiona stared at it for a moment, her hands hovering over the lid. She took a deep breath, her eyes swimming with fresh tears. "I remember now why we hid it."

Amos sat down next to her on the floor, crossing his legs with a grunt. He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it, before tugging at the tape. With a sharp pull, he ripped the seal off and removed the lid.

All at once, memories he had pushed to the back of his mind came surging forth, and for the second time that day, his throat constricted.

Fiona seemed to be the first to recover, and she reached into the box. Pulling out the book that was on top, she ran a hand over the cover and held it up for Amos to see.

"I remember when Cedric made this; he was so proud of it," she said.

"So do I." Amos smiled and rubbed his sleeve over his eyes.

The book was barely intact, the years of wear and tear taking a toll on its already questionable construction. Pieces of Spellotape bound several pieces of parchment together, each page a different size as it was cut by a five-year-old Cedric. It was a story the boy had written about a dragon for Fiona's thirtieth birthday, filled mostly with scribbled drawings of red blobs of fire and spiky green shapes he had insisted were grass. Fiona had said it was the best gift she had received that year, and Amos certainly agreed that it was a work of art.

"Look at this one," Amos said, pulling out another item from the box. It was a painted hand-print on a piece of parchment labelled, 'Cedric: Age 3'. He placed his palm over the tiny hand, this time using his elbow to wipe away his tears. "You insisted we had this copied and framed for your sisters."

Fiona let out a soft chuckle from between a few hiccoughs. "Bernice still has hers hanging in her back room somewhere."

She was still clutching the book in her arms, cradling it to her chest. Amos dug around in the box, pulling out various belongings of Cedric's they had hidden when he—when it had happened. As he sifted through his son's old school ties and a few certificates, however, Fiona's silent tears suddenly became loud sobs.

Amos let go of the possessions and turned to her, folding his arms around her. He pulled her against his chest as her shoulders heaved up and down.

"I'm sorry, I knew this was a bad idea," he said, running his fingers through her hair. "I wanted today to be perfect for you."

Fiona hid her head in his chest, her tears mixing with his own as they soaked into his robes. His hands moved down to her back and he rubbed it. It was all his fault; he should've insisted they do something else that day.

It was a moment before Fiona finally pulled back, her cheeks pink and sticky. She shook her head and sniffled, brushing away the wads of hair clinging to her face.

"It _is_ perfect," she said, sniffling again.

Amos blinked, sure he had broken his wife. "But you're crying. Merlin, I'm crying."

At this, Fiona's lips lifted a little. "I can't have my boy with me today, that is true. But Mother's Day has always been about celebrating the day with my greatest accomplishments."

He tilted his head, and this time his wife managed a proper smile.

"I mean you and Cedric, silly," she said. She brushed more hair out of her face and added, "That vile man might've taken our son away, but he can't take away our memories or our love."

Amos gave her shoulders a squeeze. "No, he can't."

Fiona held up Cedric's handmade book, opening it to the first page. "This is a gift better than anything any store could produce, and the fact that we get to sit here with it, together, is perfect. Thank you, Amos," she said, placing a kiss on his cheek.

Amos shifted around so that his back was pressed against the sofa and Fiona was leaning into him. He smiled as she began to read—or rather, translate—the text underneath the book's drawings, occasionally pointing out what he remembered each picture was supposed to be.

When they had finished the book, they fished out another: this time, a story Cedric had begrudgingly written about fairies and unicorns for Fiona's seventh Mother's Day.

"You know, next year I might just save a Galleon or two and write you my own book," Amos said as they got to the climax of the story: one of the fairies being eaten by a troll.

Fiona laughed and lightly punched him on the shoulder. "Shh, this is my favourite part," she said, turning the page. "And I'll be damned if I don't get spaghetti next year."


End file.
